


Afterlife

by Aenqa



Series: the sword & the pen (dream smp) [4]
Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Death, Dream Smp, Gen, Ghost Wilbur Soot, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Poetry, Reluctant Friendship, Resurrection, Smoking, Temporary Character Death, Villain Wilbur Soot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-13 08:28:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28900404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aenqa/pseuds/Aenqa
Summary: With great effort, Wilbur grabbed Schlatt and wrenched them both away until they crashed back onto the black rock of their world. They hunched there, coughing and panting for breath, for a long moment. Schlatt spit to the side.“Those fucking idiots,” he said hoarsely. “They’re trying to bring you back.”Wilbur and Schlatt are dead. Why is it so hard for the living to leave them that way?
Relationships: Jschlatt & Toby Smith | Tubbo, Jschlatt & Wilbur Soot, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Series: the sword & the pen (dream smp) [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2125335
Comments: 60
Kudos: 803





	Afterlife

**Author's Note:**

> This fic fills in a missing piece of Dream SMP lore related to where Wilbur and Schlatt have been after their deaths and prior to Wilbur's seemingly imminent resurrection. I tried to incorporate bits we've seen in canon, as well as some of the quotes from Wilbur during Tommy's finale stream. It contains mentions of violence and suicidal thoughts, though nothing particularly graphic. I hope you enjoy!

With a fist pressed to his frowning mouth, Wilbur sat and stared intently at the gray form taking shape from the mist. The figure was blank and featureless, yet it felt deeply familiar. The silver-pale fog of this plane moved in a steady stream over the ground and rolled over Wilbur’s crossed legs. Every now and then, another strand of mist was taken up and woven into the figure, solidifying it.

A set of echoing footsteps approached from behind him. His gaze stayed fixed forward.

“What’s going on?” asked Schlatt’s rough voice.

Wilbur said, “I think Tommy will be here soon.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Schlatt said. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

* * *

When Wilbur first arrived, he had woken up from the brutal wrench of metal in his chest to what seemed like an endless void: a silent, black vacuum, through which he was floating, or maybe pinned in place. He had no context of self or space, and for an infinite moment, he panicked. He hadn’t known what to expect from death, but if he had guessed, it would probably have been something like eternal sleep. He wanted _rest._

This was not rest. This was raw, untethered consciousness. Terrifying.

Slowly, Wilbur found he could blink, though his eyelids felt heavy with wet sand. He reached out one arm, then another, flexing his hands and slowly becoming aware of his body. His feet, he realized, stood on some kind of solid ground; he looked down and saw what looked to be black stone, smooth in some places, jagged in others, extending in every direction. A stream of whispering silver mist ran past his ankles, tumbling steadily away.

The sky was void. In the distance, eerie trees with branches like gray fingers clawed the night. Even further, enormous cliffs and mountains cut a strange outline over an endless horizon. 

Finally, Wilbur turned his head up, and he saw the stars. They were smaller than usual, and very distant, contained within a disc at the highest turn of the sky, like the top of a dome. The sphere of stars was vivid and clustered, and other than the mist, which carried a grayish glow, it was the only source of light in the whole bizarre plane.

“Come here often?” 

Wilbur whirled, stumbling on unsteady feet, and saw Schlatt, standing a few feet away from him. He looked exactly as he did when he had died only a few hours ago: the bloodshot eyes, the tousled hair around his twisted horns, the shirt and tie crumpled around his neck.

He sneered at Wilbur. “Y’know, I was sorta looking forward to getting some _alone_ time.”

“What is this place?” Wilbur mumbled.

“Fuck if I know. Do I look like the Grim Reaper?”

Wilbur looked down at himself and saw that he, too, looked as he did when he died: the dark coat, the muddy boots, the slow stain of blood on his shirt. “I think we both look pretty grim.”

Schlatt rolled his eyes and turned his back. “If you’re gonna get cute, you can just let me wander the eternal plains in peace, alright?”

Wilbur jogged to catch up with him, shaking the strange leaden feeling from his limbs, and they started to walk.

* * *

Despite the strangeness of this place, there was something familiar tugging at Wilbur’s memory as they walked the lightless landscape. The cold, rocklike trees, the slight slope of the ground; it wasn’t exact, but:

“I think we’re in L’Manburg,” said Wilbur, fascination settling in his chest.

Schlatt cursed under his breath. “Of course we are.”

“Maybe that’s why we’re the only people here,” he continued, craning his neck. He wondered, if he kept walking, how long it would take to find another person. Did everyone who died end up here?

“I guess that makes sense,” Schlatt said begrudgingly. “More sense than us being soulmates or some shit.”

Wilbur snorted, then stopped suddenly, as his feet hit the edge of a steep drop-off. Schlatt froze next to him.

At their feet lay a ravine, through which ran a river, though it was like no river Wilbur had ever seen in life. It moved in a sluggish, glassy lurch, a hundred colors and none, at once, ethereal and eldritch. It was wide, too wide to forge; too deep to see the riverbed. From it rose the sound of whispers and faint shrieks, and the thick mist which they had been walking through all this time lifted from its surface, crawled up its banks and rolled steadily away.

 _“That was the deep uncanny mine of souls,”_ Wilbur quoted solemnly.

Schlatt rolled his eyes. “Alright, Emily Dickinson.”

“Not Dickinson, you twat,” Wilbur said, “Rilke,” and started to climb down the crumbling banks.

“Hey!” Schlatt snapped. “What are you doing?”

Wilbur had already reached the river. “Don’t you want to see what it feels like?”

“I’m good, thanks.”

“Your loss,” Wilbur said, and plunged his hand into the churning water.

He instantly regretted it: he heard too many voices, all at once, screaming in his head; and something seemed to pull at the center of his chest, drawing him out of himself, like an animal being pulled from its shell. He realized, with terror, that he might be coming back to life, and he wrenched his hand back with force, feeling something tear off and separate from him like a shadow, which quietly whispered, _“oh,”_ before sinking into the bottomless depths.

Wilbur gasped for breath as Schlatt said, “what the hell just happened?”

Numbly, he grasped for leverage and pulled himself up the small cliff. Schlatt peered at him, unhelping.

“I don’t recommend _that_ experience,” he breathed. “Unless you’re trying to go back.”

Schlatt took one look at the river, raised an eyebrow, and walked away.

* * *

After the initial shock of it all, being dead felt like the most natural thing in the world. And Wilbur supposed it was. He guessed he should have known that there would be some form of life after death. He remembered, now, with the faint recollection of an old dream, that gray place he had travelled through during respawn; the strange, sinister hollow where he would float before being pulled back to life. His final death was like that, but without the resurrection. Life wanted nothing more to do with him, and Wilbur was more than pleased to bid it goodbye.

Death was endless, timeless, and comforting. Wilbur was unconstrained, free to do exactly as he wished. The world was silent except for the faint breath of the mist which never stopped flowing towards its unknowable destination.

If only he didn’t have to share it with Schlatt.

Either of them could leave, Wilbur supposed. Could just start walking towards those towering mountains until they found somewhere else to live. But neither of them did. They didn’t even stray that far from each other. They circled each other like twin stars or planets, held together by necessity of gravity.

Schlatt drank constantly. The first time Wilbur saw him with a bottle of whiskey, he’d asked, “Where did you get that?” and Schlatt grinned and said, “Ask and ye shall receive, my friend.”

So Wilbur asked, but he didn’t receive all that he wanted. He was given a notebook and pen to write his thoughts, but none of the books or poetry he tried to will into being. He wondered what that meant.

He recited more of Rilke’s poem to Schlatt, on one occasion, although he couldn’t remember all of it, and felt sure that he was messing up the best bits. Eventually, he gave up, and simply outlined the story to his captive audience.

“It’s about the story of Orpheus,” he said as they lay in the gentle fields of mist, staring up at the far-away galaxies which swirled dizzyingly overhead. “He loved Eurydice so much that he couldn’t accept her death. Simply couldn’t. He journeyed all the way into the Underworld to save her, but when the gods told him how to bring her back to life, he couldn’t do that, either, could he? He loved her _too_ much. He turned around too early on their journey home, and she was sent back into death.”

“Terrible story,” Schlatt said, tilting liquor into his mouth. “Fuckin’ god awful. Those Greeks take themselves way too goddamn seriously.”

“I suppose you could do better?”

“Yes, actually, and thank you for saying that. I’d have more action sequences, for one, more explosions, probably some sex scenes, maybe some fuckin’ Godzilla monsters or something -,”

“I used to think it was very romantic,” Wilbur said, his gaze fixed on the stars. “To love someone so much that you’d take on death itself.”

There was a long, uncharacteristic silence. Then Schlatt said gruffly: “You think there’s anyone that cares about you that much? Back there?”

Wilbur huffed. “God, I hope not.”

The constellations shifted; the fog rolled eternally onwards.

“Besides, I think I was missing the point back then,” Wilbur said.

“Why?” 

“I don’t know that Eurydice wanted to come back at all. Maybe leaving her there was an act of kindness.”

* * *

Nothing changed, and nothing changed, and nothing changed, until that sudden gray form appeared: the shape of a person sitting on the ground, a figure formed out of mist. It was some distance away from where Wilbur had woken up, but it was still close. Another person, maybe. Another soul.

The figure was there too long for it to simply be a respawn. When Wilbur sat near it, he could feel waves of emotion rolling off of it: anger, then fear, then despair, an ache which plunged as sharp and deep as the wound in Wilbur’s chest.

It was Tommy. Wilbur wasn’t sure why he knew this, but he did. It was Tommy. He was on his way. The plane was preparing a place for him.

After he told Schlatt as much, the two of them watched the figure weave itself out of the mist for a little while.

“What’s happening to him?” Schlatt asked, his voice hoarse with smoke. He had found a way for the void to give him cigarettes now.

“I don’t know. Is this what happened when I showed up?”

“Nah, you just popped to life like a beautiful – a beautiful baby boy,” Schlatt said with a snicker. “None of this mystical shit.”

When Wilbur got closer to it, it was like he could hear the faintest echo of Tommy’s thoughts. He heard the thoughts like a stream of consciousness, _should i do it/should i/should i just do it/should i just do it and be done with it//_

“Something bad is happening to him,” he mused. “Something is killing him.”

Schlatt held a newly lit cigarette to his mouth. “And how does that make you feel?” he asked sarcastically.

Wilbur tilted his head and gave it some thought.

* * *

He spent more time with Tommy as his thoughts bled out more and more, and from the images that soaked through the veil between life and death, Wilbur put together a picture of the living world. He saw Tommy, alone; he heard Dream’s hateful voice; and most strangely, he saw an image of _himself_ , almost as he used to be, stupid and happy and blind and trying desperately to make everyone around him just the same. This, he supposed, was the part of himself he had lost to the river. They were calling him _Ghostbur._ Fascinating. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t understand Tommy’s thoughts, which bent more towards the suicidal with every passing moment. He knew that spiral all too well, that spiral of thought and action which had ultimately dropped him onto the blade of Phil’s sword. But there was something unsatisfying about hearing Tommy think like this.

“No, Tommy,” he murmured to the shivering silver spirit in front of him. “Your story doesn’t end like this. Not yours.”

Tommy was always meant to be stronger than Wilbur, better than Wilbur. He was meant to finish the things Wilbur couldn’t bear to. It was an unfair burden, maybe. Most things in life were unfair, Wilbur thought. Most stories were left unfinished. But Tommy was different. Tommy _could_ be different.

He wasn’t confident Tommy could hear him, but he spent a lot of time talking to him, anyway. He said things like, “Dream isn’t your friend, Tommy. Don’t trust him.” He said, “You can’t trust anyone but yourself, but that’s okay. You’re strong enough to do it on your own.” He said, “Don’t let them win like this. Don’t let _him_ win like this.”

Once, he thought the form turned its head towards him, as though it was listening. As though it could see him. Wilbur reached out and touched its arm, and he saw, with vivid clarity: Tommy, trembling, looking down at the ground from a great height.

“Don’t, Tommy,” he said softly, and Tommy went still.

“What am I doing?” he heard Tommy whisper.

And then the figure disappeared.

* * *

Schlatt was relieved to hear that they had more time before Tommy barged in on their little afterlife. He was less relieved that Wilbur was back to spending most of his time with him.

They smoked cigarettes together, a habit Wilbur had left behind years ago but saw no harm in rekindling now. And they talked, mostly about their lives, as there was little else to talk about.

“Do you regret anything you did?” Wilbur asked, pulling smoke into his lungs. He couldn’t really feel it. The smoking was more about the ritual than the effect, now.

“What would I regret?” Schlatt asked.

Wilbur barked a laugh. “I dunno. Coming to L’Manburg. Running for president. Exiling us. Anything.”

Schlatt peered up at the sky. “Why would I regret those things?”

“Pick a reason. Morality? Self-preservation? It did end up killing you, you know -,”

“Everyone dies,” Schlatt interrupted. “Everyone is a shitty person. You all – you all liked to pin everything on me, but ultimately, nothing I did fuckin’ mattered. _Nothing_ fuckin’ mattered. They’re all still ripping each other to shreds, aren’t they? And weren’t you doin’ that already, before I came? Man, I don’t regret shit. What’s the point?” He sighed and took a swig of beer. “What’s the fuckin’ point?”

Wilbur thought of his bombs, eating into the land; of Tommy’s face, singed and horrified, right before the end. It had all been for nothing, hadn't it? He nodded and blew out a cloud of smoke, which sunk fast and melted into the mist. “I see what you mean.”

On his next breath there was a sudden searing agony in Wilbur’s chest and he doubled over, crying out in pain and surprise. Schlatt jerked his head towards him, narrowing his eyes, though he didn’t move. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” Wilbur gasped. It felt like his old wound was reopening, blood seeping from his chest, the black stain expanding. “I think – something’s -,”

His vision blurred and spun wildly, and shifted, and he was staring at someone – at Phil, with a sword in his hand – was he remembering? No, this was no memory; their surroundings were different, and someone was screaming, and it was him but it wasn’t him, it was someone with a higher, echoing voice, screaming in agony –

“Wilbur,” he heard Schlatt call, and there was a hand on his shoulder.

Which was the worst possible move. Suddenly _both_ of them were there, in that in-between place, being ripped awfully into a kind of half-life. He heard Schlatt shout and curse, and saw Phil and – and Fundy, too – and Tommy? – all stumbling back in shock.

 _“NO!”_ he gasped. “This is not happening!” 

And with great effort, he grabbed onto Schlatt and wrenched them both away until they crashed back onto the black rock of their world.

They hunched there, coughing and panting for breath, for a long moment. Schlatt spit to the side.

“Those fucking idiots,” he said hoarsely. “They’re trying to bring you back.”

* * *

Gratefully, there were no more resurrection attempts for a long time. But the distance between their two worlds seemed to shrink with each passing moment.

The next time the planes crossed, two figures appeared in the fog.

Tommy’s spirit Wilbur recognized immediately. The other one, sitting directly at his side, practically holding hands with him, took only a moment’s thought to identify. It must have been Tubbo.

They were together again, then, but close to death. Resigned to it. Wilbur felt his lip curl. He wasn’t sure if he felt proud or embarrassed for them. He supposed it would depend on what happened next.

He didn’t try to tune into their world this time. He didn’t want to do anything that might bring him closer to life. He just sat cross-legged in front of them, watching the mist alternatively strengthen and fade, pulsing, like the two of them weren’t sure whether or not they were ready to die.

Schlatt, behind him. “Is that Tubbo?”

Wilbur glanced at him in muted surprise. “I think so.”

Schlatt cleared his throat. His liquor bottle hung heavily at his side, and he was looking at the figures with a dull, blank stare. “You think this is it?”

Wilbur couldn’t help the way his mouth twisted in amusement. “Do you care?”

Schlatt glared at him. “Do you?”

Wilbur had no response, so he just looked back at the two of them. “I don’t know if this is the end. But I’m hoping they have a little something up their sleeve.”

Schlatt sat next to Wilbur, and they watched. The mist rolled on. Tommy’s figure started to fade, and Tubbo’s grew so bright Wilbur thought he could almost see his face. Schlatt’s breath hitched in his throat. And then –

And then, the two of them disappeared in a blink, leaving a glaringly dark piece of void where they had just sat.

Schlatt jerked up straight. “What just happened?”

“Did they -,” Wilbur looked around for either of the two, but there was nobody there. They were gone. “They must have -,”

 _Suddenly –_ with what sounded like a distant scream – and off to their right, there was a new figure. But this one wasn't calm; it was twisting on the ground, kicking and clawing at the air, slamming its palms against the rock. It grew brighter and brighter until it was nearly blinding, and Wilbur and Schlatt lurched to their feet and ran towards it just in time to hear it shout, a guttural, pleading sound that Wilbur suddenly recognized as –

“Dream?” he said in disbelief, and Schlatt barked a laugh.

“Wow, he doesn’t exactly die with dignity, huh?”

The spirit slumped over, sobbing into the ground, its breath tapering off. _Please don’t,_ Wilbur could hear Dream begging: _please don’t, please don’t kill me, please don’t kill me…_

 _Pathetic,_ he thought. He resisted the urge to kick him. There would be plenty of time for that once he got here.

But to his surprise, Dream eventually started to fade, too, the strands of mist that made up his form melting back into the rolling fog. Wilbur watched in surprise as he finally collapsed, swept away by invisible wind.

“Well,” Schlatt said. “That was fun.”

Dread stirred in Wilbur's stomach. “Something doesn’t feel right."

The instant the words left his mouth, there was a violent tug in the center of his chest. It was the same pull he felt when he had plunged his hand in the river, but stronger, like a fishing hook had sunk into his sternum. It _yanked,_ and Wilbur stumbled forward, and it pulled again and he felt his feet slide against black stone as he scrambled to keep his balance, trying to stop whatever it was that was dragging him away – dragging him, he realized, towards the uncanny river. 

“Schlatt!” he screamed, flailing his arms. “Help me!”

“Fuck that,” he heard Schlatt call back. “You’re not dragging me back there again!”

He twisted against the invisible rope, falling to the ground, scraping his knees and elbows against the rock as he skidded closer to the ravine. His fingers split as he scrambled desperately for purchase, grabbing onto to tiny outcroppings only to be tugged further along by whatever force this was, whatever awful magic was tearing him back to life. “No,” he ranted, “no, no, no,” as the silver glow of the river came into view -

And then there was a hand grasping his arm, and Schlatt was pulling him back, setting his feet and heaving him away from the river. Wilbur cried out and renewed his efforts, fighting against the unseen line. He didn’t want to go back, he didn’t want to, _why the fuck were they trying to bring him back –_

It was too strong, and wrenched Wilbur away with enough force to throw Schlatt along with him. They both fell to the floor and slid, and Schlatt scrambled to grab Wilbur again just as he was dragged over the cliff’s edge. Wilbur gripped onto him, his arms trembling with effort, his feet just barely hovering over the surface of the thick water.

“Wow,” Schlatt gasped, “these guys really don’t know how to take a fucking hint, huh?”

Wilbur laughed breathlessly and felt the force jerk him again with insistent, painful strength. Something inside of him resolved, and with a resigned smile, he said, “Thanks for trying, anyway.”

He let go of Schlatt and was wrenched into the river.

* * *

He sunk slowly, globes of air flooding from his mouth, and felt his lungs fill up with that glassy, thick liquid, like melted silver in his throat. It poured into him until he thought his chest might burst, too much, too fast; he had forgotten how uncomfortable life was, how much effort it took, just to move, just to breathe, just to think, as sound started to swamp his ears, filling his head with painful noise, the world twisting and sharpening around him. 

Wilbur’s back slammed into the ground, and he gasped, cold air finally searing into his lungs and replacing the silver river water. His head throbbed. His heart lurched to awkward life in his chest. He opened his heavy eyelids and saw Tommy standing above him, staring at him hopefully – Tubbo hovering nervously next to him, and behind them, Phil, who looked close to tears. The sun burned too bright, the world sharp with painful colors, and he could feel, again, everything he had tried to escape. 

He opened his mouth and felt hysterical laughter bubble out of him in a rush of sound. Tommy’s face slowly shifted from relief to a familiar kind of fear.

“Hello,” Wilbur breathed, with a wild grin. “Have you missed me?”

**Author's Note:**

> The poem Wilbur references is titled "Orpheus, Eurydice, Hermes," by Rainer Maria Rilke, which [you can read here,](https://sites.google.com/site/uteurydice/the-history-of-orpheus-and-eurydice/rilke-s-orpheus-eurydice-hermes) if you like. (That website looks just awful, but it's the only online version I could find of Stephen Mitchell's translation, which is the best I've read.) 
> 
> If you enjoyed, please leave a kudos or comment, it really means a lot! <3
> 
> [tumblr](https://aenqa.tumblr.com) / [twitter](https://twitter.com/aenqa1)


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